Arthur fell to his knees out of breath. He looked up at the Frenchmen that stood above him, a dull silver gun pointed to his head, raindrops plinking on the cold metal and stinging his eyes. He couldn't help but smile weakly. "After all these years..I thought that tu would be the one on his knees begging for mercy, Francis..." England tried to reach for his gun but stopped - what was the point? 'I'm going to die anyway...' the thought as an old memory began to play in the back of his mind.

It was a warm spring día and Francis was about to give up on Arthur - he was a hopeless...